


Mortal

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Porthos was at his side in an instant, the fear fluttering inside his chest tightening to a knot of horror when Athos lifted his hand and the blood coating his palm gleamed crimson in the sun.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mortal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilmaniclaugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/gifts).



> Sorry it took forever (:

As the last of their attackers cut his losses and fled, disappearing at a run between the trees, Porthos turned to Athos with a broad grin, eager to share their moment of triumph. His elation, however, faltered and then vanished as soon as he set eyes on his friend.

Ashen-faced despite his exertion, Athos was leaning heavily against a tree trunk, his right hand clasped to the opposite shoulder. Porthos was at his side in an instant, the fear fluttering inside his chest tightening to a knot of horror when Athos lifted his hand and the blood coating his palm gleamed crimson in the sun.

“Lucky shot.” Athos attempted a wry smile that was closer to a grimace, his pain evident in both his eyes and his voice despite his otherwise stoic countenance.

“Lemme see.” Porthos fumbled with the buttons of Athos’s doublet, encountering no resistance as he peeled it away and pulled the stained shirt aside. The ragged entry wound torn into pale flesh was a sickeningly unmistakable sight, and the absence of an exit hole meant the ball was still lodged inside. “Where’s Aramis when you need ’im?”

“Keeping himself out of trouble, I hope.”

“Unlike you.” Porthos’s voice was gruff with unconcealed emotion. He felt suddenly impotent, wanted to get Athos to someone more skilled in medicine lest he inadvertently made it worse. “If we c’n slow the bleeding, we c’n be back in Paris in a few hours.”

About to protest, Athos recognised the uncertainty in Porthos’s eyes and decided that he felt well enough to complete the journey, just so long as he didn’t lose too much blood before they reached Paris. This was no different to any of the myriad other injuries he had sustained in service to his king, and he could tolerate a little pain. “Use my shirt. It is ruined anyway.”

Porthos tore the bloodied garment into strips, bunching some into a compress and using longer segments to tie it in place over the wound. The angle was awkward, but it would do the job. Fetching Athos’s cloak from the equipment strapped to his horse, Porthos draped it around his shoulders and fastened it in place.

The fabric of the cloak was thick enough that it should keep Athos warm on the ride, but he was struck by a more pressing concern as he approached his mount.

“I do not think I can ride.” His left arm was all but useless, any attempt to move it sending a sharp spear of pain through his shoulder and chest.

It was a problem to which Porthos had a ready solution. “You c’n ride with me.”

After the trial of having Porthos haul him onto the horse’s back, it was a relief to be sat down, the pain ebbing to an ache as he leant against the support of Porthos’s back. But it wasn’t long before the throbbing began anew, sharpening to an unremitting, razor-edged thump with each mile. Every fall of the horse’s hooves sent a jolt of agony through his shoulder with a regularity that left him feeling faint. Sheer stubbornness kept him upright, his good arm clamped securely around Porthos’s waist, as grateful now for his dependable strength as he ever was.

Porthos heard Athos’s harsh, rasping breaths growing more and more laboured and, when Athos’s head dropped to press against his shoulder, he pulled on the reins to draw the horse to a halt. Swiveling in the saddle, Porthos’s heart lurched in his chest. Athos was even paler, his hair damp with sweat and his jaw muscles bunched, his teeth clenched hard against the pain.

“You should’ve said this was hurtin’ you.” It was a gentle but sincere admonishment.

Athos shook his head, dismissing Porthos’s concern over his comfort, but Porthos couldn’t continue knowing he was in such pain.

Porthos swung down from the horse and took Athos’s weight as he helped him dismount. When Athos didn’t release his hold on Porthos even when his feet were back on the ground, Porthos knew he must be feeling significantly worse.

“You need to take it out.”

Athos’s ever-practical tone did nothing to dispel the panic that swept over Porthos at his words. “What if I make it worse?”

Athos held his gaze, his lips pressed together in a grim smile. “I don’t think it can get much worse.” Porthos must have looked hesitant for Athos gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. “I trust you, Porthos,” he said with unwavering conviction. “Do it now, before the light fades.”

The sun was edging dangerously close to the horizon, and in less than an hour it would be dark. Porthos had hoped to reach Paris before nightfall, but if they were going to have to slow their pace, they would never make it. Grudgingly, he accepted that Athos was right.

Settling Athos down on a clear patch of ground, Porthos hitched the horses and collected Athos’s doublet to fold into a pillow.

“I have brandy.” Athos inclined his head towards his horse where it stood patiently, still tethered to Porthos’s mount, and Porthos felt a smile tug at his lips despite the fear still twisting in his stomach. This was one time he couldn’t quite bring himself to despair of Athos’s fondness for drink.

As Porthos knelt beside him, Athos gestured for the flask and took a healthy swig.

“I thought that was meant for your wound.”

“That too.” Athos passed it back and nodded for Porthos to go ahead. Sweeping the folds of Athos’s cloak aside, Porthos removed his makeshift bandage, the linen now worryingly soaked in blood. He hoped he didn’t look too horrified, but suspected Athos could see the trepidation in his eyes. His hands were shaking; he would rather face a horde of Spanish soldiers than have the life of his friend resting upon his meagre skills as a surgeon.

Feeling Athos’s gaze on him, Porthos busied himself washing the wound with a splash of brandy.

“Don’t use it all.”

That Athos still retained his dry wit was reassuring, but Porthos’s smile was weaker this time. Athos was attempting to allay his apprehension, an effort Porthos appreciated even though it made little difference. He unfastened his belt and pulled it free, offering it to Athos who readily clamped it between his teeth.

Porthos met Athos’s eyes, nerves fluttering wildly. “Ready?”

If Athos was lamenting being stuck with Porthos when Aramis would have made a far better physician, he gave no sign. He spoke around the leather, a gruff command.

“Just do it.”

His hoarse scream filled the air around them, his good hand scrabbling uselessly at the soil as he tried in vain to hold himself still. Finding no purchase, he grasped instead at Porthos’s arm, bruising, as Porthos mumbled words of apology and his fingers delved deeper and waves of pain crashed over Athos, tearing the breath from his lungs and dragging him down into the mercifully calm depths of oblivion.

* * * *

Porthos watched the steady rise and fall of Athos’s chest for several minutes, that simple yet irrefutable evidence that he was alive. But even with the proof before him, the knot in his stomach refused to unravel. He redressed the wound, covered Athos with the cloak and fetched his own to add an extra layer of warmth. It would be better to start back on their way, but he thought it unwise to risk moving Athos in this state. He made the decision to wait for morning and set off again at first light.

With one eye always on Athos, Porthos built a fire, and by the time he had a small blaze going, Athos had opened his eyes and was watching him silently. As he knelt beside him, Porthos was pleased to see that Athos seemed alert, if still slightly groggy with pain.

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Cold.”

The fire cast enough light that Porthos could see Athos was trembling, shivering despite being bundled under two cloaks. With gentle fingers he swept the damp hair from Athos’s forehead, felt the heat of his skin. Porthos knew the signs of fever and almost changed his mind about waiting out the night, but was still convinced that moving Athos could make it even worse. Usually a man of action, he now felt helpless, wished he knew what to do for the best.

Athos’s eyes had closed at Porthos’s touch. Perhaps if he was given a little time to rest he could regain enough strength to make it home. Resolved to his chosen course of action, albeit with a measure of doubt, Porthos stretched out alongside Athos, tucking an arm around him, mindful of his shoulder. Athos gave a soft hum at the extra warmth, pressed a little closer, and slowly his shivering abated a little.

Porthos remained awake through the night, concern born of steadfast devotion and love precluding sleep. Instead, he kept protective vigil, attentive not only to the sounds of the night, but also to the man beside him, his every breath, noise, and movement. Rarely had a night seemed so long, or the muted colours of dawn’s approach been such a welcome sight.

Athos was still sleeping, his head tucked beneath Porthos’s chin, peaceful. Porthos was loath to wake him but they couldn’t delay any longer, so he roused him gently, watching him closely to gauge his condition. Athos blinked slowly, forcing himself to focus through the haze of pain that assailed him, concentrating on the welcome sight of Porthos despite the anxious frown that creased his brow.

Carefully, Porthos helped Athos to sit, bracing him against his own body as Athos tried to swallow his groan of discomfort. Porthos held a skin to his lips, and Athos obediently took a couple of sips before pulling back and turning his head away to glare at Porthos instead.

“Water?” The mixture of accusation and contempt on his face almost made Porthos laugh.

“I’m afraid I used the last of the brandy on your shoulder.” This time Porthos did laugh at Athos’s obvious dismay. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a whole bottle when we get back.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Athos’s voice was weak, but his smile gave Porthos hope.

Athos relied on Porthos’s strength to get him back onto the horse, his own limbs leaden, unresponsive. This time Porthos sat behind him, providing additional support for which Athos was grateful. That dependable, sturdy frame was as comforting as it was powerful, and Athos allowed it to provide the strength he lacked, winding his right hand into the horse’s mane for balance.

Familiar with Athos’s characteristic taciturnity, Porthos usually admired the way he could say more with one raised eyebrow than another man could with a thousand words, but this was one time when he wanted to hear his friend’s voice, keep him fighting to retain his hold on consciousness.

“Talk to me, Athos.”

“What would you like me to say?” Spoken with measured care and the hint of a slur that betrayed Athos’s fatigue and constricted Porthos’s chest with a dread he tried not to convey in his voice.

“Doesn’t matter. Anythin’.”

Athos gave a nod, understanding Porthos’s intentions. He struggled to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound like a farewell. “Then I shall apologise.”

“What for?”

“For bringing Milady de Winter to your door.”

Porthos gave a dismissive grunt. “That’s not your fault.”

“I failed to kill her on more than one occasion, and all she has done since is cause trouble for everyone.”

Porthos couldn’t refute that fact, but there was something else he knew for certain, even if he didn’t fully comprehend it. “You still love her.”

“Yes.” It was an admission that Athos made reluctantly, made all the more desolate by its unassailable truth. “And I hate her. But I hate myself more for continuing to allow her to get under my skin.”

“Hey, I’ve met her. I c’n understand.” And Porthos didn’t think Athos any the weaker for it. Then, in an effort to lift their spirits, Porthos called on some of his typical good humour. “But if it wasn’t for her, you never would’ve met me.”

“That is true,” Athos said solemnly. “I owe her a debt of gratitude.”

Porthos was unable to reply for a moment, struck by just how deeply that same sentiment ran within his own heart. “So do I.”

They fell silent, both men lost in their thoughts while the horse carried them ever closer to Paris, and Porthos felt himself relaxing a little more with each step. He was about to strike up a new conversation when Athos’s hand slipped from its grip on the horse’s mane, falling limply to one side as he slumped more heavily against Porthos’s chest.

“Athos?” Porthos’s voice sounded unsteady even to his own ears.

The response, when it came, was a whisper, almost an apology. “I think it is bleeding again.”

A swell of panic surged through Porthos. “Hang in there.” It was a desperate plea, imploring Athos to fight just a little longer. “We’re almost there.”

Passing the reins into one hand, Porthos wrapped the other tight around Athos’s waist and kicked the horse into a run.

Despite his best efforts, Athos’s tenuous grip on the last shreds of consciousness was slipping; the world had reduced to a dark, hazy blur, the sound of birdsong and hoof beats deadened to a quiet hum. Porthos’s solid bulk at his back was the only thing of any substance that remained, and Athos groped blindly for his hand, seeking an anchor, felt strong fingers tangle with his own and clutch tightly before everything faded to black.

* * * *

Athos blinked, the room slowly coming into focus and the pain in his shoulder making itself known with a dull, throbbing ache. He could sense Porthos’s presence even before he rolled his head to the side and saw him, his chin resting on his chest, his breaths huffing in the soft, comforting rhythm of sleep.

Athos watched him for a moment, cocooned in the sense of safety Porthos’s mere presence fostered within him, then reached to brush his fingertips over the hand that lay barely an inch from his own.

Immediately he felt that touch, Porthos’s eyes flew open and he turned to Athos, his delight written in his broad grin, too overjoyed to see Athos conscious to think of anything more profound to say than, “You’re awake!”

Athos smiled up at him. “It seems I owe you my life.”

He had done nothing more than Athos would have had their positions been reversed. They both knew that with a certainty born of so many years’ friendship. “Aramis did all the fancy stuff.”

“I never would have made it back if not for you.”

Porthos didn’t want to even consider how close they had come to that outcome, what might have happened had he not been there. Athos was safe, and that was all that mattered. “You c’n repay me by gettin’ better.”

“Then I shall endeavour to do so.”

Porthos turned his hand over, clasped Athos’s hand in a fierce grip and felt slender fingers squeeze back. They faced danger with a regularity it was best not to dwell on, and what passed between them in that moment was a silent promise – one that had endured over the years and would stand far into the future – of loyalty and protection.

Athos inclined his head in a nod of acknowledgment and heartfelt gratitude, and then fixed Porthos with a serious gaze.

“I believe I recall mention of a bottle of brandy.”

Porthos’s bark of laughter echoed around the room.


End file.
